


Inarticulated

by resett22



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Emotional Trauma, F/M, Mention of Character Death, Mentions of dismembering and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 14:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14166567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resett22/pseuds/resett22
Summary: Heavily injured and mightily confused, Starscream wakes up in a room he does not recognise, with wounds he cannot exactly place though he knows who is responsible for them. He is not alone, there's an unexpected visitor worried-sick for him. He has definitely looked worse so, what is going on?





	Inarticulated

**Author's Note:**

> Over a week ago already it was my birthday. The week had not started very well so I decided to use my sadness to write something angsty as a self-birthday present. I, of course, had not thought it would evolve into this, nor that it'd take me more than a week to finish it. I wanna thank auro-isa for her feedback, and dynespark for his explanation of the singularity and how Bumblebee is on Starscream's mind. Both were key points to make this story more plausible.
> 
> Also, the summary is misleading, I write all of my stories in past tense. NOW LET'S GET SAD!

He opened his optics rather slowly, his processor already tired of the effort he was making in opening them even further. The light was dim and somewhat distant, but it still hurt. His focus was not good either, everything looked blurry. The few spots he could make out were of different shades of stale grey, except for one greater blurred dot in red. Somehow, his spark recognized better than his optics who the red dot was.  
  
“Did I live?” Starscream dared to say, his lips failing miserably to curve into a smirk. His voice was hoarse and weak, he barely recognized it. Yet, he was too tired to duel on that and, as his sight began to bring her more into focus, he saw how worried she was for him.  
  
Those expressive spark-blue optics of hers were piercing at him, first with concern, then with amused disapproval at the reference.  
  
But she decided to amuse him.  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” and she even smiled but her voice gave away how overwhelmed she had been, “If there’s an afterlife, it wouldn’t look like this.”  
  
He tried to return the smile, but as his optics brought more elements into focus he realized where he was. There were at least three hoses plugged into his system, probably regulating his energon intake and other fluids. He could feel his spark being intervened, probably to keep it pulsating at a regular pace. However, when he tried to flap his wings he felt nothing but a sharp stab of pain surging through his spinal strut.  
  
Then he remembered how Liege Maximo punctured his chest through from the back.  
  
He instinctively clenched his fists and screamed in agony, the memory as fresh as the moment itself. He didn’t listen when Windblade rose from her seat and rushed to his side, taking his servo and squeezing it tightly so his processor could return to the present rather than remain in the awful memory she had had to witness.  
  
“Try not to move,” she advised him, though it sounded more like a plead. “The doctor said it would a few days before you can move your wings… just like the rest of your frame.”  
  
Still wincing, Starscream opened his optics once more, only to be met by hers. She had moved to the edge of his berth, her frame carefully sitting next to his immobile self. The pain started to recede, making him feel numb. He guessed it was a sedative injected through one of the hoses, but a faint voice told him it was her.  
  
Surprisingly enough, the thought didn’t trouble him as much as it had done before, and thus he vented and he let the rest of the pain numb away with her presence.  
  
“Is he… offline?” Starscream asked, optics closed as he felt his processor spinning. He wanted to remember everything; how did he get out of prison? Why do it when it probably meant certain death? How had he been so foolish as to expose his back, his wings, to his enemy? Had he learnt nothing of eons of abuse from Megatron?  
  
“She was in danger, too…” said the faint voice again. It took a few more seconds for Starscream to realize it was Bumblebee.  
  
He huffed in resigned annoyance. Of course, it had to be her.  
  
“Starscream?” he heard her say. Her voice was soft, gentle; it might have been the first time she had ever pronounced his name with real concern. He would have happily play offline just to know how much she cared about him. But then she would probably kill him herself, and he did not want to die yet.  
  
“Hm?” was all he could muster; his mind was drifting away.  
  
“I said he’s gone,” she repeated, her voice slightly firmer; her servo still holding his. “Liege Maximo will no longer torment Cybertron.”  
  
He smiled as he let the good news sink in.  
  
He had done it. He had protected his home planet from the next tyrant in line, who would have otherwise doomed Cybertron to another endless war. Happiness crept through his spark and he squeezed Windblade’s servo in return as he was at a loss for words.  
  
“We did it,” he said at last, his optics barely opening to see her face.  
  
Windblade smiled but it was not the innocent and hopeful smile that he had often found so annoying. He noticed the traces of a grimace, a quivering lip, her optics filled with ache and a sadness he had never seen her carry before. He wondered whether something else had happened, whether he was truly dying or not. He felt in pain at the same time he felt numb… but he knew he would get out of this one, just like he had escaped so many times before.  
  
“What is it?” he asked, noticing her optics avert his gaze. Did he really look that bad?  
  
“It’s...” it took her awhile to find her voice, for some reason it was filled with emotion, “... nothing. I’m just… happy, that you’re still alive.”  
  
He believed her, but for some reason, he felt she was hiding something from him. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, events he wanted to know how they happened in full detail, but he felt how the room was fading from his focus. The dim light coming from somewhere was losing its strength, the background noises were melting into nothingness; even her touch, so gentle and caring, was drifting away, as if her servos were sliding from his digits.   
  
He hardly heard her next words.  
  
“You’re going to be fine…” she whispered. Her voice was ebbing away, despite she was moving closer. He tried to tune in his audios, try to make out her words through her own trembling. “Get some rest…”  
  
He felt her lean closer, her frame never quite touching his. He wanted to move his arm around her, keep her company while he remained awake, but could not move. Instead, his optics closed, finally putting his processor at ease in the blackness of his mind. He could still feel Windblade close though. She was still holding his servo, while she leaned closer to his face.  
  
He only remembered something brushing his lips before losing total consciousness of his surroundings.   
  
-o-  
  
Next time he woke up everything looked different.  
  
The room had changed, it was better illuminated, warm natural light coming through the paneled windows. Aside from his berth and the proper machinery plugged into him, there was nothing but a stool in where there was someone sitting. The rest of the room, so vast and clean unlike the last place he had woken up into, was deserted.  
  
“Hey, you’re up!” commented someone, the one on the bench no doubt. Though his optics could see him more clearly, his processor had troubles recovering the information about him.  
  
“Wheeljack?” he asked at last, surprised to see the mech there. His voice not entirely sounding like his own yet.  
  
“I was worried you wouldn’t remember me,” he answered, the sound of a smile coming from his muffled visor. Starscream wondered whether that was supposed to make sense or not. He had been stabbed, not beheaded or something… right?  
  
He felt something else, too. A faint presence, a servo patting him on his shoulder-plate. He looked to the opposite side and saw Bumblebee, concern carved on his faceplates.  
  
“What happened…?” Starscream managed to ask, returning his attention to Wheeljack before he could tell he was seeing ‘ghosts’.  
  
Wheeljack’s expression changed. He hesitated for a moment, his optics averting to the ground. He was tapping his digits frantically against his plating, unsure of how proceeding or if proceeding at all.  
  
It was a fortune strength was slowly returning to his limbs. He felt his fuel lines pump with adrenaline. He had almost died and there was clearly something amiss, or else his current condition would not have worried anyone. He clenched his fists and managed to stretch a little, eager to sit rather than lie in the berth. However, his weight was too much to lift, and his wings felt sore, too sore to even flick. Wheeljack noticed the sudden movement and quickly tried to stop him, but Starscream had desisted of the attempt almost a second later.  
  
Instead, he growled and looked away.  
  
“If you don’t wanna tell me, fine. You can go then.”  
  
He was angry at the lack of responses, he was angry at being treated like a weakling. But what probably angered him the most was that he couldn’t, he couldn’t tell what had happened, what he had missed. And it was slowly infuriating him not having the upper hand, forced to endure others’ pity.  
  
Bumblebee seemed to have gone mute as well. Though if he truly was a figment of his imagination then he doubted he would know any more than he did.  
  
“Oh, but I do… and I’m sorry. We cannot tell you.”  
  
He felt like punching the machine next to him.  
  
“It’s… not that I don’t want to,” started Wheeljack, softly and very slowly in order to peace Starscream’s anger. “Windblade ordered everyone not to say a word until you were in standing conditions.”  
  
This perked his interest, but his wings were unable to show it. It was hard to have them and command them to remain still. His face grimaced at the involuntary movement, but he did not complain out loud. Instead, he tried to incite Wheeljack, so he would tell him as much as he could.  
  
“The doctors say your mind-condition is too fragile,” he went on, “if we say the wrong thing you might go into shock again and…”  
  
He ended up abruptly, and Starscream understood that whatever had happened had mentally scarred him. He couldn’t help but smile at this, he had plenty of mental scars already, what made this one so different?   
  
“And what?” Starscream said, managing to pull out a Starscream-grin, “die? Out of shock? Please.”   
  
He dismissed Wheeljack’s concern as if nothing, but as he saw no reaction, no attempt to contradict him or even get angry at his own lack of self-appreciation, he started wondering whether he would have truly gone offline.  
  
“Look,” Wheeljack tried again, “nobody is allowed to tell you. All I can say is that you got lucky Liege Maximo didn’t pierce your spark chamber through and through.”  
  
“So, what did he pierce?” asked Starscream, he remembered and still felt a stabbing pain between the joint of his wings, going all the way through his frame and coming out somewhere in his chassis, were his optics were now scanning.  
  
“He missed it by a few inches,” Wheeljack explained, “but he ripped very sensitive wiring and you were leaking from almost everywhere--”  
  
The mention of the spilled energon was enough, his frame convulsed as he remembered falling to his knees, spitting energon as if he were drowning in it. He remembered ruins, fire, the sight of smoke and ashes as his systems started malfunctioning; his spark was withering, he was losing his grip, he was fading--  
  
The fit was enough to loosen the patches he must have had. Fresh energon came out of his mouth and the stupid machine next to him started beeping and whirring, trying to regulate his pressure and spark-pulse.  
  
Wheeljack was quick to grab a rag from the end of his berth and clean the trace of energon sliding down from his mouth but, at the gesture, Starscream moved away, visibly altered at his own mangled frame and pitiful condition.  
  
“You see? It’s involuntary!” complained Wheeljack, trying still to clean his face. Starscream continued to refuse to look at him, his gaze focused on the paneled window that connected with the exterior.  
  
It was a clear and sunny day outside.  
  
Eventually, the machine stopped whirring and beeping, his spark-pulse regulating and his energon flowing at a steadier pace. Wheeljack had managed to clean the energon off, Starscream allowing him grudgingly. He was no handicapped of any sort to need such care. He had survived a four-million-year war, why was this so terrible?  
  
“Go away,” he simply said, tired of thinking about it.  
  
Starscream didn’t need to turn around to see he wanted to protest but didn’t. He remained sitting and hesitant for a few moments, before deciding to comply and stand up. He saw the scientist walk away from the corner of his optic, shoulders slouched and heavy. He would probably regret it later but, for the time being, he truly wanted to be left alone.  
  
“Wheeljack,” Starscream said suddenly, his mind had randomly jumped from his current thought to a new one. “Why am I not cuffed?”  
  
He had just noticed, there was nothing restraining him to his berth except for the hoses, but he doubted those were there to restrain him to begin with. He was clearly not considered a threat nor a criminal anymore. He wanted to know why.  
  
“Windblade exonerated you,” Wheeljack simply replied, still looking dejected and tired. “You’ve been pardoned of your crimes, Starscream.”  
  
“I’m…” he could not believe it, “free?”  
  
“Yes,” said the scientist, a feeble smile being heard. “After everything that happened, Windblade exposed your case to the Council, and they decided to pardon you. What you did...”  
  
“... What did I do?” Starscream genuinely asked, noticing Wheeljack trailing off. He imagined himself fighting with Liege Maximo, or more like getting nearly killed by him, but nothing truly… heroic, or selfless.  
  
Wheeljack sighed and started walking away, once the door slid shut he figured that was the one thing that they could not tell him.  
  
His attention went to Bumblebee.  
  
“If you know something, you better start talking,” he half-ordered, half-threatened.  
  
“I’m sorry, Starscream,” Bumblebee dared to say, taking one step away from the seeker. “But they are right, you’re in no state of mind to relive the combat. I’ll suggest you rest.”  
  
Starscream grumbled but did as he said. He closed his optics, venting in exhaustion at the effort he had unconsciously done thus far. He sensed there was a long and boring period of resting and lying awake alone awaiting him, but a part of him was glad he was in a room with a view and solitude. It was definitely a better place to be trapped and alone than the prison cell in which he had been before.   
  
Optics closed, he allowed his processor to drift off, Bumblebee once again patting him on the shoulder, a concerned look in his optics.  
  
-o-  
  
Time surely went by, but it had not been fast enough nor pleasant. Wheeljack made sure of visiting him every single day, often talking about anything but what Starscream really wanted to know. Though he secretly appreciated the effort and the company, he felt infuriated at the lack of responses from him and Bumblebee when they were alone. This resulted in a very displeased Starscream receiving one day the Council of Worlds that he had originally formed (well, he and its current leader), into his room.  
  
The sight of the group was imposing, probably intimidating for anyone that wasn’t him. The Mistress of Fire and Elita One were the tallest of the group, each on a side of Windblade, who looked oddly diminished between the two. Knock Out and Moonracer were at the Mistress’ side, while Airazor and Tigatron walked next to Elita. The Devisium delegates and Obsidian, carrying the human delegate, were at the rear.  
  
Only when they stopped at the end of his berth, Starscream took an analyzing look at the group.  
  
Most of them seemed unharmed; of Knock Out, Moonracer, Obsidian and the Devisium delegates he could understand it. He did not concern about the human as this was not the delegate he had seen being appointed when he was the Ruler of Cybertron. They were probably on their third or fourth generation by now. As for The Mistress, she had not changed a bit except for her optics, which expressed something Starscream had doubts to believe it was melancholy. Airazor and Tigatron bore marks of having been mistreated, their organic part scarred; no doubt they had fought, too. Elita looked brand new and polished, despite the patches of new plating that obviously mismatched with her armor color. It pleased him to think that he had stripped her away from eliminating Liege Maximo herself, as she probably had wanted to.  
  
Then his optics rested on Windblade.  
  
She was wearing a golden cape, falling from under her right shoulder-plate and covering most of the left side of her frame. She was using some sort of staff to hold herself steady with her right arm. Her helm was slightly bowed, her optics not looking directly at him. Her wings were surprisingly low, almost as if in submission. Something was not right.   
  
“Starscream of Vos,” started Elita One. Starscream made no noise to acknowledge the title but his optics were now fixated on her, ready to fight back verbally or otherwise.  
  
“Do you know why we are here?” she asked. He did not show it, but he was surprised everyone else was following along her game.  
  
“I’ve been told I was being paroled” started Starscream, feigning not to care, “so I guess it’s to discuss the ceremony and how am I supposed to behave.”  
  
“There won’t be a ceremony,” interjected the Mistress. “We want to make sure you understand the conditions under which you’re being released.”  
  
She managed to catch his attention, and part of his ire. So, he was still being treated like a criminal? Fine. It proved that, whatever he had done, it had clearly not been heroic enough to gain the appreciation of the Council… or the public in general. Then again, he was not surprised at others’ ingratitude but at the fewer others’... appreciation.  
  
He remained impassive.  
  
“Which are?”  
  
“You’re free to stay in Cybertron,” answered Windblade. Her voice had come out so soft and low, Starscream had not associated it with her at first. “If you wish.”  
  
“You are not to take any job, charge or position of political relevance though,” complemented the Mistress. Starscream remained looking at Windblade only a moment longer before switching. He could tell she did not welcome the intrusion.  
  
“You’re not to recruit or instigate any Cybertronian into following you, obeying you or rebelling against the current authorities,” continued Elita One.   
  
Starscream frowned at this.  
  
“What if I want to leave the planet?” asked Starscream in return, anger seething from his voice.  
  
“Leave for all we--” had started Elita, disdainful and dismissively as usual when Windblade interrupted.  
  
“No,” she simply said, her voice strong though not steady. In fact, no part of her was. Starscream was suspecting she was barely capable of holding her ground, but she did not look up. She would not see him to optic level.  
  
“You’re to stay in Cybertron for the time being,” she added, finding a more neutral tone, more peaceful. “The doctors say you’re in conditions to return to regular activities--”  
  
“I am nothing!” Starscream replied, anger finally flaring through his fuel lines. His wings raised high as he sat on the berth, the hoses still connected but ignoring them. “I have nowhere to live and--”  
  
“You will take what used to be my apartment,” she explained, once again slightly shaking at the effort of speaking louder. “It will be your property from now onwards.”  
  
“Wheeljack…” she tried to start after a pause, “Wheeljack will accept you as his assistant at his engineering lab. You can work with him until something more suitable shows up or begin studying something more of your liking.”  
  
“It’s nothing fancy,” went on Moonracer, slightly insecure of interrupting something greater than what they had been told they were supposed to do. “But we have formed a library with sciences and other subjects, so everyone can educate themselves in something else than what they used to do… before.”  
  
“Studying,” Starscream repeated, deadpanned.  
  
“Yes,” replied Windblade, “you can choose your area of expertise, and even teach others. Provided it’s not--”  
  
“Provided it’s not related to politics,” he completed for her, a derisive sneer coming to his lips “or to any of you,” he added.  
  
By all response, Windblade merely nodded.  
  
Having had enough of the Council, Starscream directed his glare towards Windblade. She looked like an empty shell of her former self; no hope, no kindness, no willingness to smile. He wondered whether the one who should be taking some time off should be her instead of him.  
  
“Leave us alone,” Starscream dared to order. The Council’s reaction was heard through the almost empty room, gasps and angry growls filling it simultaneously. Even Bumblebee was looking at him as if he had finally lost his helm. Though, to be fair, he was about to lose it now; The Mistress and Elita One looked most indignant at the command.  
  
“You dare order us!?” argued the Mistress, her staff hitting the ground rather menacingly.  
  
“You’re nothing but a criminal--” had begun Elita, but by this time Windblade had already had enough of everyone as well.  
  
“ENOUGH!” she roared, with an anger Starscream had seen in her optics and heard in her voice only once, right after she had thrown a suitcase with all his metaphorical dirty rags right in front of him.  
  
But she was not done there. With her own staff, she pointed more at Elita than the Mistress, taking a menacing step in her direction in the process.  
  
“I will not stand you two harboring resentment over past actions when his latest act saved all of us!” Windblade argued. “I am not enough of a fool to believe he is completely harmless, but if he truly acted for the well-being of Cybertron then he is redeemable just as you were!”  
  
She directly pointed her staff at Elita One, who remained impassive at the invasion of her personal space, though she did not like what she had just heard. The Council was gaping at the two, witnessing their finally spoken struggle for the first time.  
  
Even Starscream was surprised.  
  
“Withholding information--” started Elita, but Windblade cut her off.  
  
“Withholding information that was crucial for preparations to prevent casualties is just as bad as doing the harm yourself,” Windblade seethed, her wings flaring at odd angles as she trembled with fury.   
  
“You were forgiven because there was a lack of evidence,” she added. Her voice had lowered to an audible whisper, but it had not lost its strength nor its anger. It vibrated with emotions that were about to overwhelm her. “Not because you were proven innocent.”  
  
Windblade slowly retreated her steps, her frame slowly acquiring the same defeated pose she had had upon arriving. However, there was no intention of being peaceful in her voice.  
  
“Leave us alone,” she ordered, and though the Council visibly disagreed with this, none of them objected. Instead, all except one were as courteous as to do a small bow before retracing their steps and leaving the room, the door sliding shut behind them.  
  
Silence and time stretched, Starscream not knowing if it was safe to break the spell that seemed to have been casted upon them. His own outburst was now demanding his frame to lay down once more, but he feared to move and scare her away. She was the one with the answers and judging by her defeated demeanor, he figured he could finally get the information he so desperately had been asking for.  
  
She moved slowly, her steps not faltering but barely. She took a seat right were Wheeljack used to sit every time he came to visit him and remained there in silence for a few moments. Her right servo never letting go of the staff she was holding.  
  
He was starting to think it held her rather than the usual. For some reason this made him feel uneasy rather than relieved.  
  
“I apologize for not coming before,” she finally started, speaking softly and low. “I have been… busy.”  
  
“I can tell,” Starscream replied casually, refusing to lay down on his berth, almost waiting for the rest of the Council to burst in at any moment. “Care to tell me what was that about?”  
  
Her grip on the staff tightened before answering, her wings flickering in anxiety. It was the second time Starscream saw them moving oddly, as if mis… matched…  
  
“What happened to your wings?” Starscream demanded to know.  
  
“They... uhm…” she was having troubles to focus her mind on one thing, a common symptom of those traumatized by an undesired event. He had not been wrong in assuming she was the one who needed some peace and quiet, but he doubted she had achieved that considering the tension between her and Elita.  
  
He waited for an answer that never came.  
  
“You have to remain in Cybertron, at least for a while longer,” she said instead. “Your physical condition has improved, but we need to make sure your psyche has healed.”  
  
Ah, there it was again. The supposed trauma that would probably not let him be normal if he ever remembered.  
  
“I’m getting tired of everyone talking about it as if I did not care for the memory-loss,” Starscream argued, rather pointedly. He should not be doing it, and Bumblebee certainly was disapproving his behavior, but in her current state of mind, he knew she would yield if he pressed hard enough.  
  
Windblade sighed at this, almost as if she had been expecting it.  
  
“After your battle with Liege Maximo...,” she gave in, “you were… leaking. Badly.”  
  
Starscream was attentively listening to every word, his optics not losing sight of the expressions of her face, the look in her optics.  
  
“You wouldn’t stop… muttering goodbyes… to ‘bots that weren’t there,” it was obvious the event had been traumatic for her, her vocalizer was failing and her frame slightly shaking.  
  
“You were taken to the medbay in an emergency… your frame was not just losing fuel but collapsing on all ends. Your wings wouldn’t stop twitching… Your systems continued to refuse the sedative you were given so they could work on you… I requested Airachnid’s services and she had to induce you into a coma, before...”  
  
She made a pause. Starscream tried to process the new information, surprised that it did not trigger any involuntary memories anymore. Could it be she was lying? He doubted it, considering her behavior. But then…?  
  
“How come nothing happens now?” asked Starscream, admitting to himself that he was no expert in psychological injuries as to know whether she was truly telling the truth.  
  
“The block is finally set,” Windblade answered, “You needed the rest because your processor was having troubles adjusting with the memory-block. Your processor...” a feeble smile came to her lips before continuing. “Your processor is very stubborn. It wouldn’t allow her to lock the trauma away.”  
  
A moment of silence went by.  
  
“What triggered it?” he wanted to know, unsure though whether her telling him would bring back everything again.  
  
“I don’t know…?” she forcedly replied, her voice cracking. “One moment I was on the ground, leaking, and the next one you were there. You fought amazingly,” she conceded, “but when he pierced you through… you fell. And stayed there.”  
  
“He walked towards me next, I had… no strength to fight back,” she took a pause to steady her voice. “I thought I was offline already when you pierced him through… with my sword.”  
  
“Did I hit his spark?” Starscream asked, hoping to hear the word ‘yes’, even though he already had confirmation he was indeed offline, or else they wouldn’t be talking in the first place.  
  
“Through and through,” replied Windblade, “he fell on the spot… and moments later so did you.”  
  
Starscream didn’t need to listen anymore. He figured she must have called for help and try to save him; the why would she continually do so despite his crimes still escaping his mind. But if he had saved her life and now she had saved his there was nothing much to say.  
  
They were even.  
  
“Why Elita was trialed?” Starscream decided to ask instead, hoping the subject would at least ease her from the massacre she must have witnessed.  
  
It did not work. Windblade held her staff tightly, her entire frame becoming rigid on the spot for a moment. Her next words were strained, heavy with repressed anger and regret.  
  
“She knew Liege Maximo had arrived,” she said, “and she didn’t inform the Council until chaos broke off. He had planted bombs to announce his return, blowing off the watchtowers we had set one by one every hour. We were evacuating when he took a hold of the main building, locking us in with him.”  
  
Starscream did not need to ask why Elita would have done something like that. As eager as she could have been to catch Liege Maximo herself, she probably still resented having not being elected as Ruler of Cybertron despite her military expertise. Eliminating Maximo herself, proving her informants’ superiority, would have been a good tactic to win the favor of those who could not quite forget the war, nor fear a new one with Maximo on the loose.  
  
How ironic, thought Starscream, the servant of truth was the liar who got the deceiver in.  
  
He was smiling at the cunning of the whole ordeal, momentarily forgetting someone innocent had gotten the worst part of it. Bumblebee pointed him back to Windblade, who remained silent and with her look lost on the ground.  
  
He stopped smiling.  
  
“Is that when he got you?” he asked despite himself. They had been through their fair share of suffering and Windblade had been brave and strong enough to overcome it. He wondered how Liege Maximo had broken the one being he, Starscream, had thought unbreakable.  
  
“No…” she replied, her lips quivering, her wings flaring in anxious distress. She did not want to relive it and yet her frame could not hold it back in. “He was angry at everyone… Kept asking about where we had imprisoned Vigilem…!”  
  
Starscream vaguely remembered how Windblade had gotten rid of him.  
  
“I told him to face me if he wanted to know… and he did,” she confessed. “He ripped one of my wings… and my arm.”   
  
Finally, from within the cape that covered her left side, Windblade showed him the pathetic excuse of a spare arm she now possessed. It conserved its counterpart’s shape, but a quick look gave away how it lacked quality and color. Her repaired wing seemed to be made of the same material.  
  
“I was in pain…” she went on, “but I did not care. If I perished there… at least I would have entertained him long enough... until someone else came up with something...”  
  
“Except…?” Starscream pressed on, anxiety rushing in at what could have come next. If Liege Maximo had not offlined her, then--  
  
She tried to muffle her vocalizer, despair coming out in sounds akin to the ones humans did when sadness threatened to pour out of their mouths. Instead, her optics gleamed as lubricant flowed down her faceplates like an energon vein. Her voice echoed through the room, her words progressively acquiring the force and pain that only a shattered life could muster.  
  
“Except…” she strangled a sob. “Except it was Chromia who came in and… HE KILLED HER INSTEAD!!”  
  
Starscream froze on his berth, her loud wailing reaching the depths of his spark and processor. He felt numb, and he couldn’t understand why. He had never cared for the bodyguard. If anything, she had been a nuisance for his feeble attempts to get rid of Windblade. He could not feel the loss for her, he having shot the last bot he had called ‘friend’; and yet…  
  
He knew she would never recover from that, and for some reason it made him feel numb.  
  
“I’m…” he was sorry. But he had never been good at saying those words out loud and mean them. He had done so once, and it had been oddly liberating, but he doubted it would make him feel the same way now.  
  
He decided to look away instead, fists clenched as there was nothing he could do or say to console her. He heard her fall on her knees, her staff clanking on the ground. It was then when it hit him; it was not a staff… but Chromia’s unsheathed axe.  
  
Probably the only thing she was able to keep of her.  
  
She went on with her sorrow like she probably had not been able to do ever since the event took place. His processor vaguely recalled the moment he had woken up in pain, his frame vaguely reassured by her sight. He wondered what power she had over him, capable of making him want to feel. He did not know whether consider it a blessing or a curse, but Bumblebee’s look of disbelief at the thought made him realize it was not the time to think about that.  
  
Eventually and on her own, Windblade’s sobs faded. She picked up the unsheathed axe and stood up, her optics meeting his for the first time.  
  
“Goodbye, Starscream,” she said, no smile this time, only the never-ending tears. “I hope you at least get a better chance at happiness.”  
  
She made a slight bow and departed, her mismatched wings for the first time extended in their full width as she left. Starscream watched her go, the cape covering most of the damage she had received. He wondered whether she would become him in the long run, the thought troubling him rather than making him smile. It was somewhat unexpected, he had never thought he would feel bad for her.  
  
“I hope she is okay…” finally muttered Bumblebee, the door already shut.  
  
“She better be,” Starscream replied, finally lying down back on the berth. “She has a planet to rule.”

  
-o-   
  
His days at the med bay finally came to an end. He did not feel eager to be exposed to the outer world, but finally walking felt good. Wheeljack had come to pick him up and lead him towards his new place, though ‘new’ was debatable. If he had known how things were going to end, he probably would have given a better apartment to the City-Speaker.   
  
“Ready to go?” had asked Wheeljack.   
  
Starscream had nodded and both stepped out of the medical wing and into the city’s main building’s hall.   
  
He had had no idea he was there and never had really bothered to ask.   
  
They travelled in silence, Starscream flying slower than usual deciding not to push it. His new place was dark, the only window that it had was rather small for any flyers’ liking, but it was neat. Wheeljack helped him settle down the few belongings that he had and promised to try to make a bigger window without blowing up the building in the process.   
  
“It’ll be easy,” he had said before leaving. Starscream glanced at Bumblebee, unsure to believe that.   
  
“Yeah... you better start looking for a new place,” Bumblebee advised him.   
  
Starscream walked back into his new place and poured himself some fresh energon, his mind not drifting once towards the hurting Camien that had bidden him goodbye. Bumblebee watched him with silent concern, knowing that what he had struggled to obtain the most had been yanked away from him.   
  
But he had no idea.   
  
-o-   
  
Windblade left Starscream’s room that day with lubricant still falling from her optics. The members of the Council were waiting outside the hallway, all optics expectant though for different reasons. Albeit exhausted by the recent events, Windblade walked with her helm held high, facing the Council unashamed of her display of emotion.   
  
“Is he okay?” asked Knock Out, his voice showing how insulted he was at being shoved out of the room when he was a doctor.   
  
“Yes,” Windblade simply replied. “He will not ask about how things went down anymore, and we are not to tell him anything else.”   
  
“Will you be okay?” asked the Mistress of Flame, as distant as they had become from the other ever since Windblade had been elected, a painful source united them, if briefly.   
  
“He deserves another chance,” was her answer, “one in which a factioned conflict does not dictate him what to do and think.”   
  
It did not answer the Mistress’ question, but they all thought it would have to do. She had refused to take any treatment for the trauma she had gone through, only accepting to visit a therapist occasionally. Elita had argued that no delegate should be under the effects of mnemosurgery, leaving Windblade no choice but to heal slowly.   
  
Walking away from the group, Windblade found herself once again locked in her own office. With much to restore yet, no one would come bothering her, giving her plenty of time to mourn as she saw fit. Starscream was safe and healing, and she was still alive to help Cybertron. Everything was going to be alright.   
  
“... No.”   
  
She crumbled to the ground, more lubricant coming out. This pain was unique, sharp, deep. It would never heal, she knew that. It would slowly burn her spark until it left her rusted and offline. The voices, the screams, the humiliating pleas for mercy; they all rushed in as she stared at the walls of the room, her memory returning the cracks, the broken furniture and the spilled energon. This was where Liege Maximo had brought her, where Chromia had barged in in order to help her. She was destined to work for the rest of her life surrounded by the walls that witnessed the murder of her only family, her whole world.   
  
She embraced her knees and remained still, whimpering away while her mind tried to organize what had been first, Chromia barging in or Starscream’s arrival, Liege Maximo ripping her wing or when she had tried to cut him with her own sword. Everything swirled around in her mind and every time she thought of it there was a new detail she had missed, something that could have changed the course of the past had she noticed it then and not now.   
  
Not even the good memories helped to ease the pain.   
  
“At least I saved one…” she told herself as a consolation prize. Yes, she had saved Starscream, but he would never have any idea of it. He would probably go on with his life, never to become the great being he could be. From her subspace, she took a tattered holopad and clicked in on.   
  
There it was, the ‘true self’ of the former Ruler of Cybertron, also to be forgotten.   
  
She pressed her lips tightly so nobody would hear her screaming in despair.   
  
When Starscream had been brought to the medbay, the doctors had noted something astounding. Starscream, unlike any other bot before, had written subconscious patterns for self-preservation, all of them kicking simultaneously in an effort to keep him alive. However, with his frame so damaged and leaking energon from more than one place, the same routines programmed to secure his spark were the ones killing him. His processor was rejecting the sedatives,  that what was going to be done to him once unconscious was going to be worse than what he had already been through. His frame convulsed involuntarily, unwilling to be subdued by any kind of restraint. Only when Airachnid had accessed his currently troubled mind, she was able to slowly put down each one of the subroutines that troubled the doctors.   
  
But that had been just the beginning.   
  
The first time he had woken up he was just as shaken as if he had just battled with Liege Maximo. He kept thinking he was still alive, hiding somewhere. He kept trying to escape, to find him himself. No one could understand at first why the obsession with fighting him again and again.   
  
“It’s hard to navigate through his processor right now,” Airachnid had explained a few days later, the entire Council plus Wheeljack and Ironhide were there. “His mind is a cross-reference of several painful experiences, all of them entangled.”   
  
“... Meaning?” had asked Ironhide, who was leaning against the wall near the door. Officially, he was there for security. Non-officially, he was there to support Windblade.   
  
“Meaning,” had answered Knock Out, surprisingly, “that this last traumatic experience is connected to all other similar experiences Starscream may have experienced.”   
  
Wheeljack and Ironhide exchanged looks, knowing that was a long chain even if they had never been in Starscream’s place themselves.   
  
“He fears Megatron,” Windblade had said, her voice a barely audible whisper. “I’ve seen it before.”   
  
The Council had remained silent at this; they had been informed of Starscream’s act to bring her back, but they had all seen it as another political move rather than a genuine attempt to save Windblade.   
  
“He is certainly present in his mind,” had complemented Airachnid. “However, I found the source of his motivation to be… something else. First Delegate, may I have a word with you in private?”   
  
The request had been most unusual. Half the Council protested against it, given Starscream’s fate was meant to be decided by the lot rather than her alone. But Windblade obliged, fearing it would be about Bumblebee in his mind.   
  
“Since you are probably the only being that has been into his mind, I thought it would be safest to speak with you alone,” started Airachnid, her optics gleaming dangerously as they walked towards the dungeon in where she worked.   
  
Windblade hated the place in where they had put him, but most of the Council did not think he deserved best, or that it would make any difference in his current state.   
  
“The pain and trauma caused by the wounds can be easily treated,” she went on. “But I cannot lock it away until the trigger is removed and I’m afraid this catalyst goes too deep in his mind.”   
  
“Is the catalyst Megatron?” had asked Windblade, “or somehow his memory combined with Liege Maximo?”    
  
She had some experience with that. When Vigilem had entered her mind, he had taken several forms, a bastardization of her own among others.   
  
“No, First Delegate,” answered Airachnid, finally reaching the last step. She stopped in her tracks, the dim light touching her armor while Windblade was drowned in darkness.   
  
“The catalyst is you.”   
  
It had been a shock to hear those words, to the point Windblade was not sure what they meant. She had not hurt Starscream, never meant to except for when she was fighting him at Metroplex’s space bridge section. If anything, she was confident they were improving in their approach to each other. He had gone to sav--   
  
“From what I could gather,” Airachnid started explaining, “it was never his intention you ever got hurt, physically or otherwise. Seeing you all mangled and broken triggered a self-defence response, as if it had been him the one tortured.”   
  
The words floated around Windblade, but she was not sure she was following.   
  
“Apparently, the mistreatment you suffered reminded him a lot of his very own.”   
  
Windblade’s spark skipped a beat, she suddenly felt revolted. She walked the remaining steps, coming into the light unsure of where to go. Chromia had perished violently trying to protect her, suddenly Starscream had tried to do the same. Was she really so helpless to protect the people she cared about?   
  
Vigilem’s words came back, haunting her like never before.   
  
‘You never had enough power…’   
  
She tried to gain support from the nearest wall, her spark aching to the point of collapse.   
  
“I’ll…” she tried to find her voice, “I’ll need you to walk me through that…”   
  
“As I said before,” Airachnid had started explaining, “his mind is a cross-reference of painful experiences, all of them entangled. However,” and Windblade could not believe how wickedly she was smiling as she spoke, “it seems that, in order to cope with his painful experiences, he has used you!”   
  
“Me?” had echoed Windblade. Why did that please the mnemosurgeon?   
  
“Yes!” she went on, as if it was the discovery of the century, “Of course, you’re not the only one. The scientist and what I thought it was a hallucination are in there too. But the fact remains; Starscream has been using the memories and words of those he has started to deem close to him to ‘suture’ his emotional wounds.”   
  
Windblade couldn’t believe it, and for a moment she even forgot she was in the dungeons, in Airachnid’s lab, with her merrily discussing how the bot everyone had thought a backstabbing monster was slowly trying to let go of that label.    
  
He was starting to believe them, to believe in himself. And now…   
  
She directed her gaze towards his unconscious frame, knowing that what was coming next would be only slightly less hard than what she had already been through. Her optics gleamed with sadness, but no liquid fell yet.    
  
There was something else she needed to know.   
  
“You say…?” she started, her voice unsteady, “You say the hallucination… is not… a hallucination?” she blinked a few times to let the liquid dry in her optics. “Bumblebee is real?”   
  
The mnemosurgeon stopped smiling, directing her own gaze towards her patient. Apparently, this was something that troubled her too. However, Windblade did not care for the answer as much as she cared for her attitude; she was glad she was no longer mocking Starscream’s growth.   
  
“I haven’t found yet any evidence that suggests it,” Airachnid replied, “but I can confirm that he is not inside his processor.”   
  
“How is that even possible?” asked Windblade.   
  
“Beats me,” Airachnid shrugged, “I have read though that it is possible to communicate or plague someone else’s processor with visions and thoughts of things that are not there. Whoever Starscream has been talking to, it’s not coming from his mind.”   
  
“Though, he’s not really aware of that,” concluded Airachnid, the evil smile returning.   
  
Windblade weighted her options as she walked towards Starscream’s berth, knowing there was only one way to help him cope with the trauma while keeping him out of prison. She could not trust the Council to actively help him, and there was not much he could do as a civilian, but she figured she could pull some strings there. Provide him with a safe place and a secure job for him to survive, until his processor worked out something worthier of the seeker’s time and effort.   
  
“You will erase his appreciation towards me from his mind,” sentenced Windblade, optics fixed on Starscream.   
  
The order was unexpected by Airachnid, she remained still and surprised for a few seconds before breaking the silence.   
  
“That… would mean altering and maybe deleting some memories, First Delegate,” at least she was back to being polite and respectful of her title. “Are you sure you want to do that? This alteration in his processor will be permanent in its due time.”   
  
“Yes,” she replied, her voice devoid of all emotion. “Please inform the Council of all this, I’ll meet them back in a short while.”   
  
“By your leave, First Delegate,” was all Airachnid said before offering a short bow and walking upstairs.   
  
Finally alone, Windblade allowed her spark to feel weary. Not long ago she had lost her best friend, now she was losing her only ally and someone who had put her through enough yet taught her valuable things along the way. They were confusing, her feelings for him; he had hurt her, saved her and kept her at a certain distance out of paranoia at the same time. And yet she had never expected that, deep down, Starscream cared and tried to believe in her words.   
  
She took a seat somewhere near him and watched him rest. She did not know whether he was under sedatives or still in an induced coma, but she did not worry. A part of her was hoping for him to wake up. She wanted to feel it… she wanted to feel that affection he had developed towards her. It was undeniable that she needed to feel she was not entirely alone… even if it was for the last time.   
  
She felt him shift slightly.   
  
He was opening his optics rather slowly. The light, though dim, revealed his relaxed features strain under its power. He seemed mildly confused, lost, as if he could not recognize where he was.   
  
Windblade felt guilty, but she had no time to swallow her guilt as Starscream spoke.   
  
"Did I live?" he had dared to say, making Windblade want to choke on her own grief. At a time like this and that was his first thought?   
  
But she couldn't avoid the smile.   
  
"Don't be stupid," she answered, "if there's an afterlife, it wouldn't look like this."   
  
Her own words made her reflect. For so long she had believed in powers beyond what met the eye, in beings greater than herself or her whole society. They were there to protect her and give her hope despite the evil that roamed around. But now... what if this was her afterlife? A world in where those she held close would never be a part of her world?   
  
Her train of thought was stopped abruptly by the sound of a scream; his scream. It was not the first time it had happened, but she could never grow accustomed to having him, of all beings, screaming in pain. It was a sound she wished to never listen again.   
  
Her frame moved on instinct to his aide, just like when he had collapsed on the ground.   
  
"Try not to move," she pleaded. "The doctor said it would be a few days before you can move your wings... just like the rest of your frame."   
  
Her words seemed to have an effect on him. Slowly and steadily, he recovered his senses and calmness. He was looking at her almost expectantly and, for the first time in a long time, she felt confused and at a loss for words. She was so close to him... and he was not pushing her away...   
  
"Is he... offline?" he asked suddenly, optics closed. Windblade knew he was under a temporary memory-block only, forcing her to be as vague as possible so not to disrupt what little peace of mind he could have.   
  
"Yes," she replied softly, though unable to meet his gaze.   
  
She heard him huff in annoyance, as if this was not pleasing enough. Feeling a momentary rush of panic, fearing he would attempt to stand up to search for Liege Maximo again, she tried repeating herself.   
  
"Starscream?" she asked in almost a whisper, lest she woke him up abruptly.   
  
"Hm?" was all he could produce in acknowledgement. Windblade took it as a good sign.   
  
"I said he's gone," she repeated, trying to sound more convincing. She had not noticed when she had taken his servo, but then she was unable to let go. "Liege Maximo will no longer torment Cybertron."   
  
'Thanks to you,' she thought as she watched him smile. They surely had come a long way...   
  
"We did it," he said after a moment of silence.    
  
He opened his optics to look at her again and she tried to smile, but the price had been too great for her. She could not be as happy as she knew she should have been. Cybertron would never understand the sacrifice she had done to save them.   
  
She had to look away, she was about to destroy someone for the sake of letting him live freely.   
  
"What is it?" Starscream asked, but Windblade could not answer him right away.   
  
"It's..." her voice filled with emotion at the idea this would be their last conversation as whatever they were. "... nothing. I'm just... happy, that you're still alive."   
  
She had never been a good liar, but she was hoping he would not be strong enough to press the subject further. Slowly, she saw him fade into recharge, his optics shutting down, his spark beat being regulated by the machine to which he was connected. This had been the most peaceful wake-up he had had.   
  
"You're going to be fine..." she promised, her free servo stroking his faceplates as her frame moved involuntarily closer. Her voice trembled. "Get some rest..."   
  
She leaned closer, knowing this was the end. Once Airachnid removed his affection for her, he would not want her close, nor her help. Not letting go of his servo, she pressed her lips against his, regretting not having done it when he could have returned the gesture.   
  
She waited until he was fully unconscious before speaking again, though she dared not to raise her voice above a whisper.

  
“If you’re there,” she started, whispering near Starscream’s audios. “If you’re real, please… please take care of him. Don’t let him go back to who he was. Don’t let him lose who he can be.”   
  
It was her last hope, her last resort to be reassured that, even with her away to help him, someone would make sure he would be okay. She had never had the chance to truly meet Bumblebee, but she had heard of how he was while alive. If Starscream had improved that much with his help, then maybe not everything was lost for him, even with her gone from his memory.   
  
That had been the last time she had seen him until the day she let him go. She still remembered the smile that crept into Elita One’s faceplates when she heard Starscream was getting part of his memories wiped. Now she knew Windblade had no allies to save her in the game of politics they were all playing.   
  
She had not stopped being frightened ever since then.   
  
Quieting her sobs, Windblade crawled from her spot at the entrance of her own office and hid under her desk; the tattered holopad and Chromia’s axe forgotten on the ground. She did not want to see anybody, she did not want to fight them, or talk to them as if everything was okay. Her wings barely fitted in the cramped space, but she did not care for the lousy replacement she had been given. She knew she could have asked for a better prosthesis, but it felt too… well, too perfect. Almost as if nothing had happened.   
  
She remembered how the first time she had ended up ripping it apart from her own frame within a few days, forcing her to spend a few nights at the medbay under massive energon loss. The perfectly crafted wing had made her feel Liege Maximo’s strong grip on it once again, his pede on her back to hold her still while he pulled.   
  
She vented in fear, her entire frame shaking at the memory.   
  
A trauma of this kind and magnitude was unknown for her, but despite her own misery, she knew she would have to be strong. The thought scared her, being forced to overcome the love that now had shattered in order to continue living for the service of others. She did not doubt of Cybertron’s trust on her; on the contrary, she feared that having acquired it and with all optics on her, she would fail them. Fail them and fail herself.   
  
“Keep the planet spinning while I’m away,” had been Chromia’s last words on the datapad she had left her before going on the hunt for her later-to-be killer.   
  
Windblade once again pulled her knees closer to her chassis, muffling her pain.

  
She had chosen this, to devote her life to help others, to always do what was best, what was right, to stand high against injustice, against corruption, against all cruelty. She just… hadn’t expected to claim this much from her so soon and so suddenly. It was the first time pain made her think of herself. Would she be alright? Would she survive this? Did she really want to?   
  
She shook her helm and tried to dry the lubricant that had formed in her optics.   
  
“Guess I’ll have to try,” she managed to speak, the words choking with her sadness.   
  
“I’ve got a planet to rule, after all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm receiving hearts in jars and tears in a bottle, please. Don't forget to comment! Constructive criticism (again, that is not 'what the fuck?') is greatly appreciated. Hopefully, I used the appropriate Cybertronian terminology for everything.
> 
> Blessings!
> 
> P.S.: Might have a second chapter. We'll see.


End file.
